The Ballad of Gregory's Leg
There’s an opal light on the sea at night.
And clay is a polished tourmaline,
With a diamond dawn and a dusk soon gone
Slipped quietly somewhere in between.
When the comets swish through the sky like fish,
And pale in the dark, the running lights flicker.
The world is as wide as a sailor’s pride,
And everything’s free except drinking liquor.
And clay is a polished tourmaline,
With a diamond dawn and a dusk soon gone
Slipped quietly somewhere in between.
When the comets swish through the sky like fish,
And pale in the dark, the running lights flicker.
The world is as wide as a sailor’s pride,
And everything’s free except drinking liquor.
A sailor named Greg had a wooden leg,
A fact he accepted with great good humor.
He’d oftentimes say that fate has a way
Of handing out goods to suit the consumer,
Though others might drown if the ship went down
Or snatch at a floating spar in the rumpus,
The spar that Greg snatched would be all attached,
And he’d steer for shore with a pocket compass.
A fact he accepted with great good humor.
He’d oftentimes say that fate has a way
Of handing out goods to suit the consumer,
Though others might drown if the ship went down
Or snatch at a floating spar in the rumpus,
The spar that Greg snatched would be all attached,
And he’d steer for shore with a pocket compass.
In any old region, his friends were legion.
Besides, he could always collect a crowd
Playing mumblety-peg in his wooden leg
And comforting women who shrieked aloud.
O life was a song, but the trips were long.
And a Hask was little more than a trinket.
The air was like wine which, of course, was fine,
But you couldn’t expect a man to drink it.
Besides, he could always collect a crowd
Playing mumblety-peg in his wooden leg
And comforting women who shrieked aloud.
O life was a song, but the trips were long.
And a Hask was little more than a trinket.
The air was like wine which, of course, was fine,
But you couldn’t expect a man to drink it.
As earth spun around, and Gregory lound
The problem was one that would always rankle,
He whittled a leg like a hollow keg
And fitted a spigot above the ankle.
He’d fill up his leg with Haig and Haig,
To last him - lor instance — from Boston Bay,
Till gin in Savannah would last to Havana,
Where maybe some rum would last to Marseilles.
The problem was one that would always rankle,
He whittled a leg like a hollow keg
And fitted a spigot above the ankle.
He’d fill up his leg with Haig and Haig,
To last him - lor instance — from Boston Bay,
Till gin in Savannah would last to Havana,
Where maybe some rum would last to Marseilles.
He’d soften the pain of partings in Spain
By sipping so much of the wine he harbored.
He thought that the rats were the sailors’ hats
And confused the rare old port with the starboard. The captain - though kind — once had him confined
For drinking vermouth with some dockside Latins,
But down in the brig, Greg started to jig
And shook up some passable warm manhattans.
By sipping so much of the wine he harbored.
He thought that the rats were the sailors’ hats
And confused the rare old port with the starboard. The captain - though kind — once had him confined
For drinking vermouth with some dockside Latins,
But down in the brig, Greg started to jig
And shook up some passable warm manhattans.
There’s an opal light on the sea at night,
And day is a polished tourmaline
With the open sky and a shot of rye
Slipped quietly somewhere in between.
A sailor named Greg had a wooden leg,
A fact that allowed him to scorn embargo
By getting well stocked wherever he docked
And putting to sea with his tax-free cargo.
And day is a polished tourmaline
With the open sky and a shot of rye
Slipped quietly somewhere in between.
A sailor named Greg had a wooden leg,
A fact that allowed him to scorn embargo
By getting well stocked wherever he docked
And putting to sea with his tax-free cargo.
